Rewriting Poetry

You have reduced me to this:

Shipwrecked in bed,
I grasp the
pen in hand
but tears blur
and my black hair falls
on paper and my knee is
bent my arms crooked
and my nose leaks

regret, hope and pain.

How unfortunate.
I am writing poetry,
again.

I know I am no poet.
I cannot find better words for:

"the lyricism of energy and bliss and pleasure
the fullness of the body or the calm of the soul
the glory of the moment and the
ache, the tenderness and the yearning
of one for another"

the eyes are mere mirrors,
and I grope in the space
for words, words, words.
I write,
only alphabets put together
to form words
with my pen, my fingers, my hands, my arms
that found poetry in your soft hair
hardened by wax or clay or gel or dreads
and your cheek and your neck
and your rough dark hands
entwined in my pale fingers
which grasp the pen
I use to try to write poetry.

I am not a poet.
It is the pain, the pain.
You have reduced me to this:
I have to write poetry,
again.